


Token

by elle_est (orphan_account)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle Ready, F/M, Written as a missing moment for 8x02, farewell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 06:12:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18585409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/elle_est
Summary: His first thought lies with her.





	Token

His first thought, as Sam’s words settle, adding up to something outlandish that yet manages to resonate as the truth is not fear for the future or confusion followed by sudden understanding of key pieces of the past. Neither is it distaste for what these words reveal about his current circumstances.

His first thought lies with her. With Sansa.

… _She’s not my sister, after all_.

* * *

A hush has fallen over Winterfell, the fingers of darkest night strumming all around them. Each footstep seems to echo across the hall and ring in his ears, his steps chasing one after the other, their rhythm hasty but creating a steadfast pattern. There was never any doubt within Jon: he’ll go to her. If he’s to wage this battle, he’ll need one last image of Sansa, one last conversation with her to bolster him through it. If he’s waited until now and not hours or days beforehand, it’s only because seeing her in privacy could prove dangerous. His heart, all of him, … - he’s felt too certain since Sam presented him with the revelation. 

Jon swallows when he pauses before her chambers, waiting not at all before he’s lifting his hand and knocking.

He’s fixed no time to doubt since he at once hears the murmur of movement behind the door. He’s returned to swallowing, his body feeling taut, distractingly alive with more than the fear and expectancy that accompany the nearness of battle. The door creaks open before long, the fire roaring in the hearth behind her and the torches on either side of the door enough to reveal Sansa’s clear blue eyes and beautiful face, the curves and flats that describe her body.

She says nothing as he comes inside, the stiffness in her posture and the tightly stoic expression veiling her face betraying remnants of the anger she’s been training at him since he returned to the North. He’s not surprised to have found her here: taking a moment to gather her wits and bearings about herself before the horn announces that the Night King has reached them seems like something she’d do. Jon acknowledges the fleeting thought that he’s glad that Arya and Bran aren’t around, feeling a measure of quiet surprise when doing so doesn’t feel that traitorous.

Sansa’s anger retreats, melts around its periphery when he says, - “I had to see you before the horn blasts, Sansa.”

Her smile is brilliant in the light washing across her chambers. The dress she’s wearing is somber and beautiful. Another thing that seems like her: Sansa would want to look equal shares fine and forbidding now. “You look like a man who came back from death only to defeat it in battle,” she says, tender but strong, decided and looking to reel you closer to certainty if you’ve yet to reach it. It’s the tone that won her Winterfell as well as the North.

His gaze unmoving from her, he gives her a wide, honest smile. _I needed that, - which you must have known_. Sansa returns to grinning, her glimmering eyes warm, heating up the night, successful in casting a forgetfulness spell over Jon. He keeps getting lost in those eyes.

Keeps getting lost in her.

In the distance, the horn blasts. His shoulders stiffen and he heaves a breath, his insides freezing when Sansa gasps softly, fear rippling darkly across her beautiful features. He nods, calling stubborn strength to play across every shadow and plane of his face. He takes a step forward, something between a sob and a laugh stripped from him when she lunges into his arms. He breathes her in, pulls her impossibly, impossibly close against the length of his body. Kisses her forehead. Her temple. Kisses her mouth.

Once. Fast. Nearly like a too affectionate brother would if he were about to face a formidable army made up of something other than men.

Sansa chases his mouth when Jon draws back, her arms around him tightening. He groans and gives in, unable to think, to hesitate, to do anything but guide her lips apart, taste her, his hands coming up to frame her face. She echoes him through every dip, through his every attempt to draw her closer, always closer: fire with fire, desperation and desire, fearfulness and love.

They only pull away from each other with the second blast. Sansa rests her forehead against his, and Jon brushes his thumb against the smooth column of her neck, his touch reverent. “Don’t be plagued by guilt. I’m not, - we’re not, -”

Drawing back from him the barest fraction, Sansa nods, - “I know.” He feels his face scrunch into a frown, his body feeling easier after she laughs quietly, her hands coming up to touch his face, and he finds himself lost to her again. “What? You thought that Bran wouldn’t tell us, Jon? Be you Stark or Targaryen, - winter is here and you’re family.”

Her last sentence proves successful in returning him to the present, to the flurry of movement ringing across and around castle, the farther din of horses moving into place.

He kisses her fast but gentle again, holds her eyes for a long moment before turning on his heel.

Sansa speaks before he’s reached the door. Jon turns around as she says, - “I would have braved being compared to the Lannisters for you. Come back to me.” It’s not a request but an order. The tone that won her Winterfell as well as the North again.

His hand goes to the smooth pommel of Longclaw at his waist. He’s unable to speak but he holds her unmoving gaze before nodding, needing to give her at least that. But only that: the gods can be cruel and he’s never wanted to return to someone as desperately.

~


End file.
